You know the thing I'd do first
by groundcontroltomajortom
Summary: What if Future Ted really could travel in time? Would he travel back from 2030 to April 2013 and have those extra 45 days with Tracy? Slightly AU and a HIMYM Sci Fi.
1. Chapter 1

You know the thing I'd do first

'_Kids, it's been almost twenty years since that cold April night in 2013 and I can safely tell you that if I could go back in time and relive that night, there's no way in hell I'd go to 'Robots vs. Wrestlers'. No, I'd go home__._

_I'd go to my old apartment, see all my old furniture, my old stuff. I'd see my old drafting table, where I sketched out my first building. I'd sit on that old couch and smell the Indian food cooking three stories below. _

_I'd go to Lily and Marshall's place, be back in that old living room where so many things happened. I'd see the baby. I don't know if you can picture me holding your six-foot-seven cousin Marvin over my head, but back then I could._

_I'd go have a drink with Barney and Robin, watch them fight about their caterer or whatever it was they were fighting about that night._

_But none of those things is the thing I'd do first. You know the thing I'd do first.'_

_Ted Mosby, The Time Travellers_

As Ted Mosby climbed the stairs of his apartment block, he reflected on the day that had passed. It had been lengthy and not altogether successful, featuring two seminars in which he had effectively lectured hung over, reluctant sophomores who were even less interested in modernist architecture than he was. He was glad that he could look forward to delivering tomorrow's lecture on neo-classicism, a style which he found significantly more rewarding, so much so that he practiced his oration as he continued his gradual ascent to his apartment.

He approached his front door and reached for his keys in his pocket. As he looked up, he noticed that the door was ajar, yet there was no mark on it to indicate forced entry. He stepped inside, surveying the apartment for signs of intrusion, but it was as clean as it had been when he had left in the morning. Nonetheless, having lived in New York for fifteen years, he was prepared for the possibility of a break in, although if this was a break in, it had been undertaken by a remarkably tidy troop of burglars.

'Hello,' he said.

No response was forthcoming. Ted heard the bathroom lock click open. He searched for the nearest object he could find to use as self-defence – a copy of _Architecture Weekly Magazine_ lying on a nearby shelf.

'Dammit Ted,' he said to himself.

The door opened and he heard footsteps on the stairs. Ted stood poised, his magazine rolled up as if ready to swat a fly, when the intruder appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

'Hi,' he said.

Ted failed to reply. He took in the appearance of the man that had let himself into his apartment – he wore a tweed jacket, grey suede shoes and blue trousers, with a maroon shirt under a sleeveless navy blue sweater. Though, none of these features were as singular as his face – the very same face that Ted saw every time he looked in a mirror, except perhaps twenty years older. The streaks of grey hair were an additional clue, as was the wedding band that he noticed, with some relief, on the left ring finger of the man who stood opposite him.

'Who the hell are you?' Ted asked.

'I am you,' the intruder replied.

'You're me?'

'Yep. Seventeen years from now.'

Ted additionally noticed a steel band wrapped around the left upper arm of his counterpart, which had a on it a digital display with a red flashing countdown timer on it. He dropped his copy of _Architecture Weekly_ on the floor.

'Okay, if this is some kind of daydream then it's an extremely clichéd one,' Ted said.

'It's not a dream. I've travelled back in time to meet you,' he replied.

'What?'

'Ted, listen to me, listen to us. To me, listen to me. Tonight, you're going to do something very stupid, cause you're lonely and depressed,' the man said.

Ted shook his head. The man looked him in the eye.

'You're going to go to _Robots vs. Wrestlers _on your own,' the man said.

'Yeah, well, it's _Robots vs. Wrestlers: Legends_ actually,' Ted replied.

'My time here is limited,' the man replied in a fatherly tone.

'Sorry.'

Ted noticed that his counterpart had dark patches under his eyes, whether he was exhausted from the effects of time travel or through some other means he could not tell.

'Ted, I'm going to give you an address,' the man said.

'Whose is it?' Ted asked.

The time traveller smiled in response.

'It's hers isn't it?' Ted asked, returning the smile.

The time traveller nodded slowly, yet Ted perceived that an expression of doubt, or possibly sorrow, briefly crossed the face of his older counterpart.

'Yes, it's her place but I'm only here briefly, Ted, and I don't want you to waste any more time. So please, please try for my sake not to completely mess this up,' his future self said.

'But if you got it right the first time, then why do you need me to meet her now?' Ted asked.

'I have my reasons,' his future self replied, with a tone that brooked no argument.

Ted paused. He sat down for a moment and touched the surface of his drafting table, as if to ensure beyond all doubt that this was not a hallucination.

'And you're certain that you being here won't change the course of history or anything?' Ted asked.

'Ted, you're an architecture professor. Do you honestly think you're that important?' his future self asked.

Ted nodded, inwardly conceding that his run for president in 2032 now seemed an even more distant prospect. He stood up.

'Just don't bet on The Indians to win anything anytime soon,' his future self advised.

'Noted,' Ted replied.

'And for God's sake, try to convince Barney and his Brazilian friends to invent a time machine with a range of greater than seventeen years. I've been sitting in your apartment, our apartment, since noon cause they got the hours and minutes confused,' he added.

'Okay,' Ted said.

'And, no, this is not your typical Thursday afternoon activity at the age of fifty two,' his future self said, in a low voice.

'I never said it was,' Ted replied quickly.

'Finally, have this,' his future self said as he handed him a written note of the address he had promised. It read:

_West 115__th__ Street, Number 317, Apartment 7A_

'What am I meant to do with it?' Ted asked.

'I don't know. Contrive something. Work on a plan. You're good at plans,' his future self said.

'Perhaps I should just go to her apartment and declare my undying love,' Ted said, laughing.

His future self silenced him with a withering look.

'Don't screw this up, Mosby. I'm counting on you,' the time traveller added.

The image of his future self started to flicker. Ted reached for him for a moment but before either of them could speak any further the older man had disappeared.

Ted rubbed his eyes for a moment whilst he briefly considered the probability of what he had just witnessed. Several possibilities occurred to him. One was that he had drunk too much recently. Another was that the particularly strong 'sandwich' that he and Marshall had the previous Wednesday may have affected him more adversely than he realised. The third was that he needed to contact Kevin for a psychiatric appointment.

Though, one other more dominant train of thought occupied him. That what he had just participated in was a frank conversation with his older self, who had, in fact, travelled back almost twenty years in time to talk to him.

Ted looked again at his drafting table, upon which sat a solitary ticket to _Roberts vs. Wrestlers: Legends _that offered him alternative entertainment for the evening.

He realised at that moment that he had nothing to lose.


	2. Chapter 2

You know the thing I'd do first

Chapter Two

Tracy McConnell sat at her desk, staring at her laptop, wondering what to write next. It was 9.30 in the evening and her barely touched cup of coffee had long since turned cold. She scrolled to the top of the document to read the essay question once again:

_Describe the causal, macro and microeconomic factors that led to the collapse of Lehman Brothers in 2008._

It was not even a question. She enjoyed her subject and did not regret her choice of degree, yet, as with all of her academic experiences to date, there were aspects of it that did not interest her in the slightest.

She stood and took three deep breaths. Her essay had absorbed her attention too much to notice that the bedroom window was open on what was a cold April evening. Perhaps Louis had been in here doing his exercises earlier and had left it that way, as some kind of Spartan macho thing, Tracy thought.

Tracy closed the window. She looked around the room for motivation to return to her desk, but none of her trinkets, not even her little yellow bus, had their usual cheering effect.

Certainly Louis' 'half' of the room did not provide any. His wall was covered with posters of boxers and football players that she had never heard of. Most of the posters had a quote on them about how important it was to be 'better than the next guy' or something that essentially meant that.

She turned off her laptop and walked into the front room. Louis was watching ice hockey on the large flat screen TV. He had the blank expression of a man who was fully immersed in the sport on the screen in front of him, sipping occasionally from a bottle of beer in his left hand.

Tracy walked into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water and went to join Louis on the couch.

'How's the hockey?' she asked.

'Oh, well, The Rangers are losing,' he replied.

Tracy knew that The Rangers were the New York team, so she adopted what she hoped was an expression of vague annoyance. She could not help but feel that she had not disguised her indifference particularly well.

'How's the essay going? Louis asked.

'Oh, fine,' Tracy lied.

They returned to watching the hockey in silence. Louis put his arm around her shoulder and she shuffled along the sofa reluctantly, placing her glass of water on the table in front of them.

'How was work?' she asked.

'It was fine,' he replied.

At that point, she decided to give up on conversation with Louis for the evening. The team that were not The Rangers scored again. Louis scratched the back of his head and continued to stare at the screen. After another five minutes of hockey had passed, there was a knock on the door.

'Are you expecting anyone?' Louis asked.

'No, are you?' Tracy replied.

Louis shook his head. Tracy stood up and walked over to the door. She opened it. A man stood at the entrance, around six feet tall, wearing a brown jacket over a shirt and tie. He seemed to be rather anxious. In his left hand, he held a stack of leaflets. There was something familiar about him, though Tracy could not quite place it.

'Hi,' he said.

'Hi,' she replied.

There was a long pause in which he seemed to be looking past her, towards Louis, then his gaze returned to hers gradually.

'Can I help you?' Tracy asked.

'Oh, yeah, I'm handing out leaflets for a bar just down the road – MacLaren's. My friend Carl owns it. Anyway, it's a really good Irish Bar. You should try it out,' he said.

'Ah, yeah, I know it. Although, originally I thought it was called something else,' Tracy replied.

'Oh, what was that?'

'Puzzles.'

He nodded slowly.

'Yeah, it was called that for a while. It used to be a much better bar when it was called that but it's still, well, it's still awesome,' he said.

'Okay, well, I'll give it another visit at some point,' she replied.

'Alright, thanks. Well, have a good evening,' he said.

He turned to leave. She took a step out of the apartment as he walked away.

'Hey, have we met before?' Tracy asked.

The man turned around at the end of the corridor, he had an odd expression on his face, as if he had a slight sense of vertigo.

'No, we've not met before,' he replied.

'I could have sworn that you look familiar. Are you a teacher?' she asked.

'Yeah, I teach.'

'Economics?'

'No, Architecture. I think you have me mistaken for someone else. Enjoy the rest of your evening,' he said, as he stepped onto the stairwell.

'Thanks,' she said, as he walked away.

Tracy walked back inside the flat. Louis was unmoved, watching the third quarter of his game. The Rangers had made something of a comeback it seemed.

'Who was that?' Louis asked.

'Oh, just a guy dishing out leaflets,' Tracy replied.

'What for?' he asked.

'That bar MacLaren's, where you first bought me a drink,' she replied.

'Ah, that place. Cool.'

He continued to drink his beer. Tracy stepped carefully into the kitchen and unfolded the leaflet on the table. The central pane featured a photo of a group, clearly slightly the worse for wear after a long evening. She recognised the figure in the middle of the group as the man who had just delivered her leaflet. Along the bottom of the photo, the caption read:

_MacLaren's Regulars: Lily, Marshall, Ted, Barney and Robin_

'His name is Ted,' she said to herself.

She also recognised the blonde man on his left as someone who had hit on her at a drugs store a few months previous.

'Still, if that's the kind of guy he hangs out with,' she thought aloud.

'Everything okay back there?' Louis asked from the living room.

'Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,' Tracy replied.

She folded the leaflet back up and walked out of the kitchen to retrieve her coat and bag.

'Um, I'm going to go for a walk,' she said.

Louis looked at her with curiosity for a moment, but then returned to watching his match.

'Okay, just be careful. New York's a big town,' he said, a smile forming on his face.

'Oh, I will be,' she replied.

Tracy shut the door behind her. She realised as she walked down the corridor that his parting comment was Louis' attempt at a joke. That, in itself, made her laugh quietly.

She started walking down the stairs, uncertain of where she would go, but in the knowledge that the journey would include a stop at an Irish Bar that, until a few minutes previous, she had entirely forgotten about.


	3. Chapter 3

You know the thing I'd do first

Chapter Three

Ted walked through the front door of MacLaren's carrying his remaining leaflets. He looked around the bar as he entered. It seemed to be a fairly quiet night. He recognised some of the more regular groups, but there was no one around who he knew well enough to share a conversation with.

He handed the leaflets back to Carl, who gave him an enquiring look. Ted had only handed out around a third of the leaflets that Carl had given him, and although the barman was pleased with this unexpected favour, he was confused as to why it seemed that Ted had only delivered to perhaps a couple of streets or a small apartment block.

Ted sat opposite him on one of the bar stools.

'The Indians are playing if you want me to put it on,' Carl said.

'Nah, I'm okay,' Ted replied.

'Well, they're playing The Yankees, so you've got no choice, buddy,' Carl said, changing the channel.

The footage on the TV switched over just as a Yankees player hit the ball into the crowd for a home run. Carl turned back to Ted with a broad smile across his face.

'It's going to be a good night,' Carl said.

Ted shook his head sadly and silently ordered a beer. When Carl returned with his drink, Ted noticed that he was alone behind the bar.

'Are you short tonight?' Ted asked.

'Yeah, Wendy agreed to do a few fill in shifts for me as she's back in the city but she called in sick. So, yeah, we're short,' Carl replied as he went to serve the next customer.

'I could help if you like,' Ted said as the barman returned.

'No,' Carl said, rather more firmly than he had intended to.

There was an awkward pause as they recalled the previous occasion that Ted had worked the bar at MacLaren's. Carl had found some unwelcome surprises the next day, which led to him asking Ted to help him clean up when he arrived with Marshall and Robin the following evening.

Ted returned to his drink and focussed his energy on ignoring the baseball match. This was proving increasingly difficult, especially when Carl pointed out at great volume to the other patrons that Ted was the only Indians fan in the establishment. The widespread laughter this was greeted with reminded him of occasions in the past that he had told strangers that he supported the Washington Generals. He reflected that his choice of sports teams had been an aspect of his life that rarely had provided him with much satisfaction.

Ted stood and left his bar stool to sit in his regular booth. It was unoccupied. None of the rest of the gang could make it out to join him that night. He had attempted, somewhat frantically, to call Marshall after his experience at the woman's apartment, but had only got as far as his voicemail.

He retrieved the ticket for _Robots vs. Wrestlers_ that he had stashed in his jacket pocket and placed it on the table in front of him.

He looked up, and noticed that someone had walked into the bar, someone that he recognised distantly but could not immediately place. She had medium length sandy hair which fell half way down her back. She carried with her a book, it looked to be a Sherlock Holmes mystery but Ted was not certain. She sat at one of the bar stools and started to read.

'Coat Check Girl,' he said to himself.

She turned around, clearly hearing his voice and looked at him with curiosity, placing the book back in her bag. It occurred to Ted in that moment to run out of the bar or hide under the table, but the delay in acting on that impulse prevented him from doing so, as she walked over to the booth with a straightforwardness that he recalled from their last encounter.

'Ted?' she asked.

'Yeah, hi,' Ted replied.

As she stood there, inspecting the booth, Ted realised that he had not seen her in seven years. Her hair had grown, he noted, and she looked thinner than he remembered. She sat down opposite him.

'You never came back,' she said.

'Yeah, I meant to but, well, you know how these things are,' he replied.

'What? You meet someone you like, never bother to contact them, then run into them in a bar seven years later?' she concluded.

'Something like that,' Ted replied quietly.

She laughed. Ted shifted uneasily in his seat. He was quite unsure how to handle this. How, he wondered, should he talk to other women now that he had met the woman who would, at least in theory, eventually become his wife.

'Look, I never even got your name, so, um, it seems wrong to keep calling you "Coat Check Girl",' Ted begun.

'Amanda, my name's Amanda,' she interrupted.

'Amanda, right. Well, Amanda, I'm actually waiting for a date so I'm sorry to end this conversation a little prematurely but, I'm afraid I can't talk to you,' Ted said.

Amanda nodded slowly. She offered a half smile and reached into her bag to produce a business card which she placed it on the table.

'That's got my number on it, so call me if it doesn't go well,' she said as she stood up and returned to the bar.

Ted nodded in thanks. He picked up the business card and read it, curious to discover what the woman he had known as 'Coat Check Girl' for so many years was currently doing with her life.

_Amanda Graham, Fashion Designer, East 24__th__ St._

Ted nodded in appreciation at the change in Amanda's fortunes. It had always seemed a waste to him to have someone with as sharp a wit as hers checking in coats at a dance club. He felt guilty for lying to her about his non-existent date, yet he now knew with a certainty he had rarely experienced before that there was only one woman he wished to be with. Even though, to his surprise, he had discovered earlier that evening that she was not as single as he had assumed.

'Dammit Future Me,' Ted whispered to himself.

As he placed the card back on the table in front of him, he noticed in his peripheral vision a familiar face from earlier in the evening.

It was her. The woman whose apartment door he had approached not more than an hour ago. She had arrived at MacLaren's. Quite where from Ted could not tell, though he could read the expression on her face from countless similar situations in his past. It spoke of incomprehension and disappointment. She was staring at the business card. Ted was unsure how long she had been standing there but realised with regret how she may have perceived the conversation he had just shared.

Their eyes met briefly, and then she walked quickly out of the bar.


End file.
